


Make sure she's breathing

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, seriously dont read this if this is going to trigger you, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a very short vent fic.content warnings for graphic descriptions of self-injury.





	Make sure she's breathing

**Author's Note:**

> this is just me venting and projecting onto my fave character from p3  
> sorry yukari.  
> the lyric is from scoring by bôa.  
> the writings not the best, but i needed to get out Something, and its 12am so everything seems better at 12am.

_“Make sure she's breathing, make sure she's feeling;_  
_make sure she's responding to you now”_

In a comfortless, darkly lit dorm room, illuminated only by the gaps of light coming through the door and reflected onto her large mirror, between the pink checkered bed sheets in disarray, expensive makeup lying scattered and dirty dresses and skirts on the floor, Yukari is hunched in the centre, sitting on the carpet, her frilled skirt rolled up to her underwear, exposing her upper leg, gathering her supplies for the night.

No sound besides from the muffled noises of the other inhabitants of the dorm is heard, as Yukari's breath is held captive by her hand, clamped tight against her mouth, keeping any miserable sounds at bay. If any of the other S.E.E.S members caught wind of her ever doing this to herself, Yukari doesn't know how she would deal with their disappointment. A let-down to the team, they'd say. Unfit for battle. A liability.

It's a nightly ritual, however. An ugly, self-cannibalistic ritual. So, they wouldn't ever know. She's been doing this for years.

Her stray hand reaches down to the old metal sharpener on the carpet, a spare one that she found at the bottom of her school pencil-case long, long ago. She pushes aside the newly pilfered gauze from the dorm's first aid kit, glancing aside to make sure she had enough tissues and enough hydrogen peroxide left to clean up after herself.

Infections would be the worst case scenario and she'd rather chew tacks than go to the hospital because her cuts weren’t clean.  
She's learnt how to take care of simple injuries after missions, as the scrapes and cuts from regular battle started becoming more serious each night after every level of Tartarus.

Minato always seems to be impressed by her skill. They all probably think its persona based. Io would beg to differ.

Removing her hand from her mouth, the sounds of her uneven breathing releases into the stale air of the room, she reaches down and un-tightens the loose screw holding the sharpener blade in place. Extracting the blade from its casing, her fingers fumble with it, knocking over the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, with hearing a particularly loud bang from downstairs.

_Fuck, dumbass Junpei. Don't ruin this for me._

Adjusting her position, extending her leg and gathering her skirt, she runs her fingertips over the raised white and red marks on her upper thigh and hip, and she takes a moment to wonder, maybe one day she will wake up and all of these scars will be gone, maybe a tattoo is going to cover it. Maybe she'll stop cutting one day.

Taking her time, and with one panicked look to the locked door, she touches high-carbon steel to flesh.

_Remember, it's all your fault. Your mother. Your **Father**. _


End file.
